Lunacy

I will not be                             a crazy woman—

your masterpiece—                whatever that means.

I do not revere                         lunacy

the art of subjugation             in full moonlight:

you want me framed              my brain and belly

on your wall                            dance in separate directions.

The artist paints                      around an abandoned bonfire

to glorify himself                    composed of canonical books.

But I do not revere                  gold leaf paper flames swirl

your self-obsession                 up in a gust of cold air.

I cannot sit                               still I melt slowly

for portraits                              like soft leather bindings.